Crimson Skies
by orenjijunsu
Summary: Cullen knew not to gauge the passing of time by the setting sun - which could not be seen in the vermilion sky - but by torn flesh as it rotted away from yellowed bones. It had been a year since the Herald had disappeared, never to be seen again. Big thanks to pinksundays on AO3 for her tremendous help.


When Cullen had first arrived at Redcliffe castle - wrists and ankles bound together in iron chains, Samson had stopped outside the gates, face illuminated by crimson sunlight - to welcome his prisoners. Cullen, accompanied by a small group of Inquisition soldiers who had survived the massacre at Haven, solemnly turned their heads as Samson motioned them towards a wooden bridge in the distance. They blanched at the sight that met them, chains drawn taut as they shuddered and fought to stay upright. One soldier fell to his knees, smothering a cry into his arm, for he knew his family most likely laid at the bottom of the pile. Bodies hung from five ropes, entwined together, like foxes left to rot on a spiked fence, off the edge of the bridge. Beneath them lay a pile of bodies. Carts overflowing with the dead were pushed off to the side, discarded. Not one soldier made a sound, as they were too shell-shocked to react. From then on, Cullen knew not to gauge the passing of time by the setting sun - which could not be seen in the vermilion sky - but by torn flesh as it rotted away from yellowed bones.

It had been a year since their Herald disappeared. He had not been present at Redcliffe when it had happened, but Cullen had not forgotten the last moments he spent with her at Haven. Fleeting glances, a smile, and the corners of lush lips lifting up towards beautiful green and brown irises likened to a sunflower swaying in the morning breeze. It felt like some sort of promise. He felt for her. It might not have been love yet, no, but it was no mere infatuation, either. They had yet to know each other enough for true feelings to bloom, but the more he stole glances of her at the war table during meetings, twiddling with her braided hair and slyly winking at Leliana as she listened to Josephine ramble on about another nobleman, he knew they could be something. Cullen yearned for someone to wake to. He longed to run fingers through her blonde, silky hair and over the very tip of her lovely pointed ears, just to see that ever present mischievous twinkle in her eyes. He had never dared to, of course. Yet still, he wanted.

The way her curled slightly against her cheeks, how her eyebrows pulled together in concentration while she spoke solemnly in apology for Sera's latest antics, whilst trying not to allow her amusement to break through her well-maintained facade. He never fought much against his own answering grin.

She blushed bright pink when he did smile, and the way it creeped across the light green of her tattooed cheeks (Valasin? Vallaslin? He had butchered the word enough for a lifetime) as their eyes met, allowed him to believe that she just might be interested in him as well. The melodic sound of her laugh. He had only known her for a short while, but from the moment he saw her; he had wanted.

Oh, how he had wanted.

Lingering memories made the painful ache in his chest that much more prominent. It was one of the few good memories he had left that had yet to be ruined. Everything else was stained scarlet from lyrium - lyrium that had been forced down his throat that slowly slithered through swollen veins for weeks until his mind had become his only sanctuary and his body nothing but an empty hull. He could hide behind the wall of his lyrium-addled vision, and pale, paper-thin skin, replaying his happiest moments over and over again to keep the panic at bay, as his veins became more prominent, pulsing, a flash of ruby as crystals began to pierce through. If it weren't for Branson, Rosalie, and Mia… no, if it were not for the ghost of Ellana, the whisper of her hand resting upon his shoulder as they looked over plans at the war table and the lilting chime of her voice murmuring Commander Cullen, he would have fully given himself up to Corypheus's Commander long ago.

It was not long after she was gone that an army of Red Templars came for them, fronted by Samson and a cowering Alexius not far behind. Corypheus felt no need to leave his throne to take over Thedas. Cullen and his soldiers had fought as hard as they could to keep Haven's walls standing, but with the screech of the behemoths in the distance, and the violent slice of sword against supple flesh filling their very beings, the walls inevitably came tumbling down. They felt lost without their Herald, and so as the enemy approached, it became obvious that it would not be much of a fight. There were so few of their soldiers against thousands of Corypheus's army. The soldiers had trembled where they stood, hands gripping bows and swords while they awaited a command. Cullen had felt powerless as his men turned towards him, the slightest glimmer of hope in their eyes. But he knew, as soon as he gave the order, his men would fight and fall before him. Cullen had hesitated to send them to their deaths and because of his indecision, there was little resistance as Samson entered the fields before Haven. When he finally did move, it was far too late. As the Inquisition fell, so did his sanity.

It became impossible to think clearly, to live with the sound of Josephine's screams, and the hiss of her last, painful breath pushed through gritted teeth and blood-stained lips. He gave in, much too easily for his liking. The pain of needles through thin skin and lyrium in his hungry stomach was heavy. Any thought of spending another day chained to cold stone walls as he gasped and gagged, hoping an overdose would finally take him, was too much. So, he gave in. Like the pathetic excuse for a man that he was, he became Samson's puppet. Fronted a troop of Red Templars as a Red Templar himself. Burned down villages, raised his sword for his new leader because his body was no longer his own, and neither were his actions. None of the Inquisition's advisors could have ever imagined what the Red Templars truly faced at the hands of Samson.

When Samson called for him, he went, legs moving against his will. Fighting against an invisible force that snaked its way through his veins, muscles cramping at the strain, was ever present. When Samson demanded something of him, it was done, even if it meant torturing one of the only people he had ever trusted. Leliana had lost the look of pity in her eyes long ago, and instead longed for the day she could sever his head from his neck and end both of their suffering, once and for all. He craved it, too, for the feeling to come back to his fingers and the control over his own limbs: to think, speak, and act of his own accord. Cullen's resolve was far too fragile, he knew. He should have fought harder, but there had been no stopping the control of the lyrium. Now it seemed his tongue would not form any other words except Yes, Commander. Thy will be done, Commander. All the while, he hid. In the darkest depths of his subconscious, behind an impenetrable wall, he hid. It was easiest to pretend nothing existed but the whisper of her memory.

It was all he had - all he needed.

Screams of agony and terror echoed through the vacant halls of Redcliffe, a never-ending cacophony of suffering. As he took his daily patrols down winding halls, surrounded by dusty stone and bright red lyrium, growing from the sockets of long-dead mages and soldiers alike, he heard a commotion from down the hall. Alexius. His legs moved forward, on instinct, and he began to unsheathe his sword as he rounded the corner, muscles tensed and ready. He was but a meter from the doorway to the throne room where the Herald last stood, when he saw them.

A mage he had never seen, but had heard enough about from Alexius, who must have been Dorian Pavus. Next to him, the Iron Bull, and Sera, clothes torn and sullied, distress etched into the stark lines of their faces, but with a confidence in their stances that he had not seen in what felt like eons. He would have smiled, if he could have.

Slowly he began to step forward, attempting to quietly investigate, when he saw a brilliant flash of blonde hair, and the pointed tip of an ear he spent many nights wishing he had been able to touch: unscathed by the horrors of the past year. Ellana.

There she was, the Herald - his Herald - looking perfectly healthy and alive , if not a bit distraught at what was going on in front of her. He felt his legs shaking beneath him, struggling to hold himself up, wanting to run forward, for their eyes to meet, if only for the shortest of moments. She was alive.

Ellana Lavellan was alive.

He took another step forward, shakier than a newborn foal. It had been so long since he had been able to feel the heaviness of his own limbs: since he had had the privilege of control. Cullen could thank his friends for that, for the small bit of hope they had given him, at that moment. He stumbled, his steel gauntlets scraping against the castle walls surrounding him. Cullen could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He could hear Ellana shouting, sounds of fighting, and he couldn't move.

If he went out, it would be the end of everything. He couldn't fight against them, for they were his friends, and she was the only person who had kept him going for so long. He was afraid. He knew what he looked like now, and how they all felt about him. Traitor. Filth. Cullen deserved to rot in the darkest depths of the Void, he knew. He could see where Alexius lay in a broken pile upon the floor, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to move.

The trembling of his hands and the sound of footsteps approaching quickly down the hall to his right broke him of his reverie. When he turned to see who was shouting, time stopped flowing.

Samson stood not far from him, red eyes seething, lips pulling up and over grotesque teeth. In their reflection, Cullen could see: Iron Bull falling to the dusty stone floor, Sera laying prone, back to a column while blood pooled on the floor around her, Dorian slumped against the drapes looking much the same, and Ellana…

Ellana.

He knew exactly what Samson would have him do. The moment he spoke, Cullen would lose all control, and raise his sword against what remained of the Inquisition. He would slit the throat of the ones he loved, and watched as their blood spewed across the castle floor, already stained from the lifeblood and entrails of so many innocent, while Samson stood not far behind, rejoicing all the while.

In the next moment, Cullen made a decision he wished he had had the strength to make long before, when Samson had first laid a sword in his hands after weeks of torture at his very hand. After he had long since given in, like the truly weak man that he was. As time began flowing again, he could hear the murmur of magic in the air, and taste the ozone on his tongue. He could hear someone bellowing, and the doorway was swathed in a sickly green light, illuminating his left side. The Herald. Ellana. Samson took another step forward, face beginning to twist into a gnarled grimace as he prepared to shout out his command, and Cullen thought of his beloved Herald one last time.

Before Samson could speak, Cullen's trembling subsided, replaced with a newfound confidence and surety, as he withdrew the sword Samson had given him from its scabbard. In his heart of hearts, he knew what he must do to right his wrongs. He lifted it up, hilt pointed downward, blade positioned towards the ceiling, and spoke proudly, unwavering.

"For the Inquisition!"

And he brought the blade forward, releasing his grip of the hilt to grasp the blade firmly between his hands. Blood rushed out, slicking his fingers, but he would not lose purchase. Cullen took what would be his last breath, and as the green light vanished from the corner of his eye, he brought the tip of the blade towards him, piercing the skin of his jugular. He fell, as blood bloomed and splattered across the floor around him, onto his own blade. He was thankful that the lyrium did not diminish the feeling of sword tearing through flesh, severing tendon and muscle and vein. It would be quick.

As his eyes fluttered shut, and his mouth gaped and gasped for breath that would never come, and blood spurted from his lips, he thought of her. The Herald of Andraste. Ellana. Light green tattoos, swirling from her brow to the bow of her lip. Ellana. The sound of her laughing breathlessly, happy.

Ellana.


End file.
